


Fated, Fateful, Fatal

by lokidiabolus



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Slow Build, grumpy cop, sassy visitor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-11 14:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3328949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokidiabolus/pseuds/lokidiabolus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Micah's line of work was dangerous and wrong, but he was good in it. Or he had been, until he fucked up and almost got caught and killed, escaping only by miracle and got found by the most kind soul in the world, earning a safe haven until the hunt for his head subsided. Or at least that was what he thought until he found out he was sharing the place with a grumpy cop that was suspicious even of the colour of Micah's hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The flash of red made him stagger and almost fall, a stabbing pain digging deep inside of his body, drawing out an agonized groan that echoed in the cold, snowy yard. The clinical whiteness and soft flakes covering the ground broke under several drops of crimson staining them, sinking deep and leaving small, menacing holes in their wake.

Micah felt his vision blurring at the edges, his head ached with each attempt to focus and he could taste copper in his mouth. It made him sick and he wanted to throw up, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t stay. Forcing his disagreeing body to move had been an ordeal these past few hours – it hurt, it burned, it barely cooperated, but it had to if he wanted to survive.

The noises had already subsided. His pursuers gave up an hour ago or he’d managed to lead them astray, he didn’t know. But there was gratefulness and hope his life wouldn’t end in such fashion, and that was enough, at least for now.

His shaky legs grew weaker and weaker with each passing step and everything narrowed into a dark, roaring tunnel. Al loud hum filled his ears; it throbbed and cascaded down his nervous system until it burned out completely and darkness swallowed him whole.

***

It was like waking up from the cold grave into an unnatural warmth seeping into his bones like gentle caressing, engulfing him in a cocoon of softness. He couldn’t tell what happened, nothing came back to him. His consciousness slowly drifted back from the safety of the darkest parts of his mind and demanded an explanation, a visual, a quick understanding of his current status.

Was he safe?

Was he dead?

There was a light nudging his eyelids, trying to fight its way under, but the insecurity kept his eyes shut for a moment longer, gathering strength and courage to face the possible doom that could have waited for him there.

He tried to move his limbs first – an immediate success and an unpleasant pain come as a response at the same time. He hissed and stretched his right foot, which earned him more uncomfortable pain in return, and judging from the numbness of it, it was a lighter injury, maybe only a sprain. The other leg seemed to be fine, as well as both hands. The left shoulder throbbed unpleasantly though, sharply even, therefore a worse wound must have been scarring it.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes slowly, finding out he didn’t recognize his surroundings at all.

The plus side was – it didn’t look like a cell. Nor a hospital. Or a cellar. He was expecting something like those, and neither of them would mean a happy ending.

This place however most reminded him of someone’s flat. There had been a lot of natural light coming from the window, furniture that filled the room systematically, all bright and mostly happy colours. He lay alone in a bed with two blankets over him, and there was a glass with pure liquid in it, and prepared pills on a small plate.

He tried to move a bit and sudden nausea hit him like a tidal wave, almost toppling him, so he quickly abandoned the thought and just remained lying, painfully aware he had to have a concussion at the best.

Yes, he remembered. He had been hit in the head at first. It almost made him black out. There had been blood. Then a sharp pain in his shoulder came – a stab wound – and his body immediately tried to escape. He fell, he got up, and he tried to run away. They were chasing him, away from the unmoving body he left there, seeking and screaming and he had been scared and in pain and… how did he manage to get here?

This wasn’t his place. Or anyone’s place he knew. He had been treated. He found bandages on his body where he got hurt. There was one on his head as well, wrapped carefully against the no doubt gaping wound on his forehead.

He took a shuddering breath and tried to sit up again, this time as slow as if he just found himself in an action movie, walking away from an explosion while putting on his shades. Inch by inch he managed to rise up higher and higher, until he finally straightened his back without feeling like he needed to puke out his internal organs.

He had a different shirt. It said Metallica on it and it looked completely worn out and grey instead of black as it probably should have been. He had no pants on pants though, only his briefs, and bandages on his right feet, and he wondered how the hell they managed to squeeze him out of his pants without him helping – they were more reliable than a chastity belt at times, even when it was just his bladder that needed the release.

He squinted back towards the bed table to see if his glasses were present, but found nothing but the drink and pills there, not really keen on touching them until he knew what mess he just got himself into now.  So far he got a good vibe, the safe one of someone actually taking care of him, and not just because they wanted to get him super fat and eat him for dinner a week later (he wouldn’t even taste good anyway, he was like a rotten tomato, especially his brain).

His clothes were nowhere to be seen as well, but judging from the multiple wounds he had, he could have guessed his clothes were probably more in a stage of being thrown out than ready to wear.

He swung his healthy leg over the bed’s edge and waited. _Nothing_. He added the second leg, hovering it slightly above the ground and then gently touched the fluffy carpet under it; waiting for the nausea to return, but his head seemed to get better when his movement was slow enough. The next stage was a sloth, but it helped, it really did.

He stood up, balancing with a wince on his good foot, and his vision wavered slightly until it got calm again as if someone adjusted the focus, making him renew his inner equilibrium and finally seizing an exit – a white painted door tightly closed on the opposite side of the room. It was a nice room, really. He could tell a woman lived here, or at least had the possibility to leave a touch – everything seemed sort of neat and clean. He knew from his own experience that stripping from his clothes was easy, but picking it up and folding it, or actually throwing it to the laundry was above his virtues. Rarely any man was able to do that, so it was safe to assume a gentler gender might have owned the place.

He forced himself to move towards the door, his feet bare and maybe even a little cold. The pain in his foot wasn’t as bad as he thought, even when stepping on it, but his head ached with each sharper movement and it made the possible escape quite ineffective.

The room behind the door was apparently a living room, all spacy and empty. He checked the whole place with furrowed brows, searching for something, _anything_ , or at least _anyone_ who could tell him what happened and how he even got here. But there was no one, not even a piece of paper with a threatening message on it, and all he could find was a pair of too long black jeans (also a little too big for his hips, but hey, the belt he found along with them solved the problem fast enough) and yellow fluffy socks with white flowers on them.

_Manly._

He stalked the rest of the flat, stopping in the bathroom, checking himself in a mirror and assuming he looked worse than after  the alcohol poisoning he went through in college, and he was even green there, and covered in his own vomit (not a pretty picture, but it still got photographed and was reminded of it at every possible moment by his asshole friends for the rest of the semester). The left side of his face was bruised, his forehead bandaged, and his lower lip cut and swollen. When he checked the shoulder wound, it made his stomach clench so he rather left it be and only poked his lip, hissed at his own stupidity and proceeded to thank anyone who guarded him that night that he was actually still alive.

He didn’t need to be. He wasn’t supposed to. He should remember that.

“Oh, you’re awake,” a female voice pierced his sudden lack of alertness and he almost jumped out of the borrowed jeans and socks while chasing his panicked heart that tried to claw its way out of his throat.

“Sorry!” a petite woman cringed at his reaction, and she looked normal, unarmed, and possibly easily overpowered if anything. She reminded him of this one coffee shop girl – with long, dark curls framing her round face, and big brown panicked eyes – not really a prototype of someone who wanted to hurt him further.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she quickly added, the gestures of her hands placating and probably unconscious, and he watched her in silent wonder, probably looking like the worst image of human tragedy wearing her clothes. Or at least socks. The jeans would probably be like a sleeping bag for her, since she was even shorter than him, and that was enough said (“Hey, I’m not _that_ small! Just fun sized…”). “I just went out grocery shopping, you didn’t look like you’d wake up soon… how do you feel?”

“I, uh…” he croaked out, his voice failing miserably, so he cleared his throat awkwardly and it made her look a little calmer. “Good. All good.”

“That’s great to hear,” she smiled at him warmly, not even phased by the fact he was seeing her for the first time in his life, or wore her socks, and somebody’s jeans and shirt, and wandered through her flat like a zombie. “I mean, you’re lucky I’m a nurse, you looked like you were dying…”

“If it makes you feel better, I thought I did,” he gestured and she stepped away from the door, making space for him to leave the bathroom and follow her to the kitchen. It was strange and quiet, like she didn’t even care he could attack her at any moment. It wasn’t a proper behaviour, he mused. She was either too naïve, or maybe there was something he didn’t know about – a camera, a bodyguard, a poison ready to be delivered. Maybe all above.

“So, Micah,” she dropped all her bags and turned towards him with a serious expression, making him blink in surprise while he stopped at the table, watching her warily. “Why didn’t you want me to take you to the hospital?”

“How do you even know my name?”

“You told me your name,” she replied steadily and started unpacking the bags she brought with her. He sort of expected a huge knife to appear in a second. “While telling me specifically _not_ to take you to the hospital. While you were bleeding all over my car.”

“Oh,” he let out, circling the table with a limp. It probably looked more ridiculous than casual. “I don’t remember that.”

“I’m surprised you even remember who you are,” she shrugged, putting an empty bag away and turning to him again. “You had a nasty wound on your head, not to mention I don’t even know for how long you had been lying there in snow, loosing blood.”

“Where?” he croaked out, the memory of anything reminding him at least of what she talked about lost somewhere deep in his brain.

“Next to the main road,” she said with a sigh. “I swear to god, I was so scared when I found you, I thought you were _dead_ …”

“I asked you not to take me to the hospital,” he repeated the piece of information slowly. “And told you my name.”

“I tried to keep you awake as long as I could,” she mumbled. “You clearly have a concussion, falling asleep wouldn’t help you.”

“What else did I tell you?”

“No hospital,” she said. “No police. No public places.”

“That’s all?” he stared at her and she nodded, her eyes sincere and that confused him a little. It sounded farfetched. If a person found a wounded man who didn’t want to go to the public place, what was the first thing they would think of?

 _A criminal_.

Yet here he was. In her flat, without police, without anything that could protect her from him. And she knew his _name_. He thought he was going to die and people had been chasing him and he decided to tell her his _name_? Now talk about illogical behaviour.

“Lots of gibberish,” she shrugged and pulled her hair behind her ear. “You made zero sense, really. So I brought you here, cleaned the wounds and you lost consciousness again.”

“After I told you my name,” he added, and his tone must have been doubtful, because she gave him a strange look and then rolled her eyes.

“Look,” she started. “I saved your life. I even let you stay here and took care of you. If I wanted to hurt you, I’d just slice your throat when you were sleeping.”

“You look more of a gun type,” he deadpanned. “Shooting me between my eyes.”

“I’m bad at aiming,” she threw back. “But have a nice collection of knives.”

“Point taken,” he concluded and she smiled again, nodding towards the table.

“How about you sit down? I’ll make you tea.”

“I prefer coffee,” he piped, but did what he was told since his leg was starting to get worse and his whole body ached. If she wanted to kill him later, he felt powerless to stop her in this state, with his strength draining away from him in an alarming speed.

“Tea,” she uttered. “Caffeine is really not the best for you right now.”

“Yes, mother.”

She snorted, glancing at him from rummaging the cabinets, and it was hilarious, really, because she was so small she barely reached the first shelf, and he would be only slightly better, and with her yellow fluffy socks it completed the manly help in the house to the perfection. He wouldn’t even be able to open jars for her in his current state.

“My name is-,”

“Becka, you home?!”

Micah almost fell off his chair from the shock of hearing an unknown male voice roaring from the hallway and then he heard the door slammed shut, echoing loudly, and a dark haired guy entered the kitchen, making Micah’s heart to stop.

It was a cop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betad by Essentiallychaotic! Thank you so much! <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you picking up strays again?” his voice rumbled and it was aimed at the girl, at Becka, and Micah had that small, foolish hope that maybe he would be able to get out of this alive and intact – as much as all those wounds would let him. “Because I think we have already established that it’s a no-go.”  
> “When I was ten,” Becka shot back and let out a long, frustrated sigh, pointing at the cupboard. “Can you get me the tea box? I swear to god, you’re doing this on purpose. You know I can’t reach that high.”

The first thing that flooded Micah’s head was: _I’m screwed._ He didn’t doubt it – he just woke up at an unknown place, a girl that apparently brought him in was too nice to a stranger that bled all over her car, and now a cop appeared as if he was roused by Micah’ awakening, ready to bring him to justice.

Or an electric chair. Probably an electric chair. Well, for sure.

The nausea was back and it was threatening him with the most unflattering sidekicks ever – starting with throwing up and ending with fainting in the pool of his own barf. Not that such image helped – god help him, it actually made it even worse and he could already tell his skin must have caught the familiar green tint. Not to mention the fact the cop was basically _staring_ at him like he saw right into his brain (not something he would be envious of, he considered his brain something so not worth the effort) didn’t help.

“Are you picking up strays again?” his voice rumbled and it was aimed at the girl, at _Becka_ , and Micah had that small, foolish hope that maybe he would be able to get out of this alive and intact – as much as all those wounds would let him. “Because I think we have already established that it’s a no-go.”

“When I was _ten_ ,” _Becka_ shot back and let out a long, frustrated sigh, pointing at the cupboard. “Can you get me the tea box? I swear to god, you’re doing this on purpose. You know I can’t reach that high.”

“Still funny when you try,” the cop shrugged, gave Micah one more suspicious glance, and reached above Becka’s head to get the requested thing. He was definitely taller than her. Definitely taller than Micah. And surely kind of intimidating with that gun hanging at his waist (Micah had to bite his tongue to forget about the pun that immediately popped up in his head, for god’s sake, the concussion made him lose the rest of his fragile sanity).

He was sort of gruff and serious looking, all sharp lines and stubble going on, wide shoulders and the uniform that gave him a little more of the _bam_ effect as well. Micah thought those types of guys were usually seen in the movies to just stand there and look broody and serious with their mouth in an unhappy curve and brows furrowed while saying something about a murder or a bank robbery. Or like the guy from the weird show about monsters and a person from who wrote the fairy tale about them in original, but now was actually hunting them. Or something. Graham? Grunt? Something along the lines.

But yes, black haired and having this _please don’t touch_ label that read the subtext _or I’ll bite your hand off_ in small letters. Micah definitely didn’t want to push his luck, so he remained quiet and tried to look very casual, like he belonged; like the bandage on his head meant some new fashion streak and not the fact he had been re-colouring Becka’s car. Like he had completely nothing to hide.

“That’s Michael,” Becka nodded towards the uninvited guest while taking mugs from the next cupboard and then putting the kettle to boil. Another suspicious glance towards Micah landed from the cop, this time longer and more thorough.

“You’re Michael?” he asked and Micah really, really hadn’t had a clue who the fuck Michael was. A dog? An ex? A landlord? Long- time lost lover? HIV positive gay friend with a chip on his shoulder?

_I’m so screwed._

“I’m Michael,” he said anyway, the name tingling on his tongue uncomfortably, but at least it wasn’t some exotic sounding nickname he would break his jaw on.

“I thought you said he was punk,” the cop didn’t stop staring.

_Well, fuck me._

“I’m punk,” Micah replied immediately, thinking very hard what exactly punk meant these days. Mohawks were hopefully out of the picture, and he probably didn’t even look anything like it. “…ish.”

“Can you stop it?” Becka pushed the man out of her way with a steaming mug in her other hand and Micah thought he saw her wink at him a little. It made him want to lose consciousness all over again. “He had rough night. You’re not helping.”

“I thought you two broke up,” the cop grumbled, crossing his arms on his chest while he leaned against the counter, and his eyes remained suspicious and piercing. Micah tried not to panic, because he was probably as straight as curly fries and the look on the cop’s face seemed like he knew it all. “Or is his state a result of you wanting to get him back this way? Beating him to a pulp and drag him home? You want to borrow my handcuffs so he won’t run away again?”

Micah saw Becka’s face cringing a little, and then adopting more defensive expression while she turned around, seizing the dark man in a hard stare.

“They beat him up, thank you very much,” she uttered and Micah groaned internally. Beat him up. So she came for a rescue. That definitely was going to help them, dumping away the rest of his masculinity. As if those stupid socks weren’t enough.

“Who beat you up?” this time there was a concern in the cop’s voice, as if his profession came to life, and Micah just couldn’t curse at his own fate vulgarly enough.

“I haven’t asked for their IDs,” he muttered, avoiding the cop’s eyes, and heard the movement how the man abandoned his spot and approached the table.

“Have you seen their faces?” another question and Micah knew it had been a routine for the police, to find the culprit, to help. The problem was he didn’t want help. He needed to lay low and he really, really needed to the police to drop it.

“Neither of them was as pretty as me, so I didn’t bother,” he responded sternly and heard Becka snicker.

“That’s very helpful,” the cop grumbled unhappily and Micah finally took the rest of his courage and looked back at him, immediately acknowledging he was suddenly a lot closer, and even more intimidating at this range, just looming over him like a statue.

“Just leave it,” Micah tried not to sound too needy or desperate to raise the suspicion, and kept his voice as flat as he could. “Just once you give a guy BJ and the rest of his homophobic friends come at ya and beat you up-,”

“Fine,” the cop rolled his eyes, giving Micah an annoyed look and retreated back to the kitchen desk, apparently successfully repelled by Micah’s unsavoury habits of making people uncomfortable. He called it a gift.

“But don’t even try to blame me for not helping, Becka,” he gave the girl a look and she only shrugged and sat down next to Micah, smiling at him encouragingly. It felt like he jumped into some strange dimension and his life somehow turned into a teenage comedy with the way he just became _Michael_.

“Just leave him be, he’s still shaken,” she patted him on his arm and Micah flinched - a stupid reflex that made the cop frown even darker.

_Not good._

“What are you even doing here this early?” Becka thankfully saved the day, making the man focus back at her. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“Don’t you?” the cop opposed and Micah couldn’t escape the attention that got forced on him once more, as if he was the reason they gathered here both today. “Was just stopping by. Saw your car, thought you’d killed somebody.”

“Oh,” Becka offered a small, sweet smile. “You were worried, that’s so sweet, Sam.”

“I just saw your car dripping blood, of course I was worried,” _Sam_ let out an exasperated sigh and checked his watch impatiently. “I assume it was your boyfriends’.”

“Good guess,” Micah mumbled, his shoulder throbbed painfully as if in response, and Sam looked him over, as if he was checking for the injuries.

“It was a lot of blood,” he pointed out.

“I still have a lot of it left in me,” Micah said.

“A hospital would suit you better,” a remark that made Micah cringe. “You’re lucky Becka is a nurse.”

“So I was told.”

“You sure there is nothing you want to tell me?” Sam cocked his head to the side, watching him expectantly, and Micah couldn’t blame him, he was just doing his job.

“You have a really sound voice?” he offered and Sam only grumbled something in response and left the room without another word. It was probably for the best and Micah was grateful, because the next thing he wanted to say included Sam’s butt.

***

“I assume you don’t want to talk about what happened to you?”

“I assume you don’t want to tell me who Michael was?”

Becka seemed to contemplate the topic for a while and then let out a long, tired sigh. They managed to drink half of their cups and she even gave him food, but his stomach refused to accept anything that wasn’t liquid, so it just rested on the plate between them like a peace offering.

“As you probably already gathered, Michael is my ex-boyfriend,” she started, playing with her fork, nibbling her food absentmindedly. “We broke up about two months ago. He was an ass, really. Moved to Europe without saying goodbye, only texted me and au revoir.”

“Sounds like a lovable fella,” Micah piped, his fingers curled around his cup, warming up his cold hands.

“Yeah, he was a little on a wild side,” she nodded, smiling a little, even though it was more bitter than relieved. “Which was probably the most interesting part of him. Unpredictable. When Sam came in, I wasn’t sure you wanted me to tell him your name, so I improvised.”

“And Sam is…”

“A friend,” she put down the fork and sipped her tea. “He lives in the flat under this one. I know him forever.”

“I thought he’s your brother or something,” Micah admitted, because really, there had this sibling familiarity between them, so it was the safest thing to assume. She chuckled and nodded in understanding.

“Lots of people think that, don’t worry,” she gave him a smile, but it disappeared soon enough. “But it’s not me who I wanted to talk about.”

“Well, I think it’s a lovely topic,” he tried, but her serious expression stayed, so he just sighed in defeat. “You assumed right. I don’t want to talk about what happened to me.”

“Is it illegal?”

“Is beating somebody up legal?” he countered quickly and she shook her head, but didn’t get intimidated.

“What was the reason for it?” she pressed. “Because I want to help you, I really do, but my close friend is a cop and he just saw my car all bloody and you pretending to be who you’re not, and if there is some serious trouble, he _will_ sniff it out.”

“I got into disagreement about my work,” he said shortly. He couldn’t think fast enough to come up with a suitable and believable response, everything seemed like from a bad movie.

“That must be really something for people to take it this seriously,” she pointed out. “Leaving you stabbed and unconscious on the side of the road, afraid of public places where they can apparently find you and finish the job.”

“You can say that,” he agreed. “But that’s all I’m gonna say about it. I’m grateful for your help, but saying more would only cause more trouble.”

“Illegal then.”

“Not very safe,” he grudgingly admitted. “Like driving without a safety belt. Or a licence.”

“Sam is a cop.”

“Sam has a really nice ass.”

She looked at him and he stared back and if a pin dropped on the floor, it would probably create a black hole and swallowed the silence that occurred.

“Meds for pain?” she asked simply and Micah felt his body relaxing and head nodding vehemently.

“Yes please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetad!
> 
> Sam has a nice ass and Micah is getting high on meds. I swear there is a romance hidden somewhere :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No,” he mumbled without anything clever to add, which sucked, but he still felt a bit dizzy. He put it into his mind diary though, the column of I’ll get you later for this, and tried to ignore how the cop’s smile widened, and not in a pleasant way. “But you can get me pants. And socks. And some other shirt, this sucks.”  
> “That’s my shirt,” Sam informed him matter-of-factly. “And Metallica doesn’t suck.”  
> “My god,” Micah groaned, pulling the collar away from his neck. “It’s so-so on me, how do you even wear it? Giving your neighbours something to drool about while feeling like Captain America?”

Sleeping was nice. It was calming and worth the effort to endure all the creeping thoughts lingering just under his eyelids. Once he got past the initial discomfort and tossing around (or better fidgeting, tossing required movement and movement really hurt, so he tried to keep as still as possible, which was really difficult for a restless sleeper like he had always been), and pushed back unpleasant flashbacks and reminders, and the disgusting memory of a coppery taste still somewhat staying in his mouth, no matter how much he drunk or swallowed, he was able to finally drift into nothingness. The meds helped a lot, and Becka knew it. He was aware he should be worried about the possible poison in them, but he was just so _tired_ and _hurting_ he stopped thinking altogether and just submitted.

When he woke up the first thing he noticed was a terrible headache that banged on his inner anvil somewhere deep in his brain, ringing like an alarm over and over again. The glass with water still stood on the bedside table, but the pills added on variety and another plate with yoghurt and cut apple appeared next to it. Micah stared at it for a moment, contemplating the situation, and then let out a long, defeated sigh.

The room was buried in dark shadows with only street lamps shining inside through the window, and Micah realized he must had been sleeping for long hours, giving his body the rest it needed. Except his head, he felt a little better, lighter, not as aching all over, and it made him bold enough to get up again and wander out of the bedroom. The bandages Becka changed before she literally tucked him back to sleep were still holding nicely except the one on his forehead he apparently pulled off during his restless sleeping, but since the wound didn’t bleed anymore, he considered it not so hot to remedy that.

He stepped out of the room slowly, peeking inside of the living room with curiosity, and heard the TV on in the back, alerting him Becka must have been still up. The clock showed something past eleven and he distinctly recognized Gordon Ramsey’s show playing in the background. He padded forward, looking around to find the petite woman, but the sofa was vacant and the whole living room empty.

It took him several seconds, but his rational thoughts finally caught up with the reality – if there was no one to watch him, it was his chance to get out without them noticing, just maybe leave a nice, thankful note and then sending a big fruit basket. But this wasn’t ideal and he knew it, and Becka was right – Sam was a cop and he seemed doubtful about all they tried to bully him with, so to run now was the best idea out of all he ever had.

He hastily turned to the door leading into the hallway just to realize, when he actually stepped out on the colder floor, that he didn’t have any pants, socks or boots and basically stood there only in his underwear and the Metallica t-shirt, looking absolutely lost and miserable.

“Going somewhere, sleeping beauty?” a male voice behind him made his body go completely rigid, a million of thoughts passing through his brain like a lightning, starting with _they found me_ over _why am I still alive_ to _I don’t want to be buried in my underwear and this old, crappy t-shirt that’s not even mine_. He jerkily turned around, expecting anything – a barrel of a gun, a knife shining in the moonlight or baseball bat ready to pop his head off his shoulders, but the sight wasn’t anything _as_ scary as his worst nightmares.

Sam stood there with his arms crossed on his chest, dressed in casual black clothing and not his uniform anymore, and looking back at him with raised eyebrows. Micah wondered if he was getting handcuffed in the next minute or just finished off because of reasons.

“Toilet,” he replied lamely anyway, even though the pause must have given Sam some sort of satisfaction of giving him a good scare, he could see it on him.

“Wrong way,” the cop smirked, and yes, of course he was all pleased with himself, because Micah was standing there almost butt naked and definitely looking like the death just touched his shoulder and whispered something mean and scary, and he almost shitted his non-existing pants.

“Oops,” he croaked out, barely getting his wildly beating heart under control and absolutely failing at it. It was alright. Sam was a cop. Police should protect him, not hurt him. Unless they’d find about his job. Then they’d hurt him as well, just… more civil way, probably.

“Do you need _a hand_ there?” Sam watched him with amusement, and now he was openly mocking him, Micah was aware. Smug bastard, this was not cool. Micah just woke up and didn’t even have time to get into proper form before this, his snarky remarks were still loading up.

“No,” he mumbled without anything clever to add, which sucked, but he still felt a bit dizzy. He put it into his mind diary though, the column of _I’ll get you later for this_ , and tried to ignore how the cop’s smile widened, and not in a pleasant way. “But you can get me pants. And socks. And some other shirt, this sucks.”

“That’s my shirt,” Sam informed him matter-of-factly. “And Metallica doesn’t suck.”

“My god,” Micah groaned, pulling the collar away from his neck. “It’s so-so on me, how do you even wear it? Giving your neighbours something to drool about while feeling like Captain America?”

“You can take some of Beckas’ if you don’t like this one,” Sam grumbled and Micah had to smile, because he just kicked him off the high horse and that was a victory.

“Does she have any pink ones?” he deliberately played the note and Sam rolled his eyes and rather left him in the hallway, disappearing back in the living room with tense shoulders. Micah high-fived himself in his mind and actually went to the bathroom to relieve his bladder, since leaving was apparently out of the question as far as Sam was conscious.

The mirror didn’t flatter him again. He didn’t look any better than he did when he woke up for the first time in this flat. He had unhealthy colour in his face, and the left side of his cheek and forehead was starting to play with all possible shades, with one nasty bruise ruling over it. His left eye apparently gave up, since half of its white got red, and it looked menacing and freaky how it almost reached the green cornea. His hair was a mess as well, standing in all possible directions, and even though it was more fair than brown, it had its dark spots, especially at the left side, where the blood dried off and got almost black.

“Oh man, I’m a mess,” he mumbled, dragging his fingers through the dry patches and hissed in pain when he put too much pressure at the swollen area. Goddamn, he was so lucky he was still alive. He still couldn’t really grasp the reality, but… if Becka hadn’t appeared that night and hadn’t found him at the side of the road, he would be dead by now, rotting somewhere, after he would bleed to death.

A stab wound. A concussion. A sprained ankle. Not to mention his ribs hurt a bit too, probably when he fell after he lost consciousness for the first time – not that he remembered losing it for the second time, but it counted. He quietly raised the hem of the shirt, cringing at the purple area where he felt the pressure and frowned at a bruise that went all down to the hip.

“Karma is a bitch, huh,” he muttered, tracing the bruise delicately and then let go with a sigh. He was still alive. That mattered the most. Alive and _safe_. Hopefully safe.

Safe-ish.

***

“Took you long enough.”

Micah padded into the living room barefooted and slightly cold. The collar of Metallica shirt was wet and chilled him even more.

“Needed a shower,” he mumbled in response to Sam’s comment and self-consciously smoothed his damp hair over the bruise. Not that it mattered as much; the living room was dark with only TV illuminating it, still playing Gordon Ramsey’s show loudly, and Sam didn’t really pay him much of his attention. He was sitting on the sofa quite comfortably and there was an opened bottle of beer on the table, already half empty.

“Where’s Becka?” Micah asked carefully while reaching the edge of the sofa and climbing on it slowly. Sam didn’t do any move against it, so he considered it allowed and seated himself as comfortable as he could.

“Night shift,” Sam grumbled. “Asked me to babysit you.”

“How sweet of her,” Micah piped, earning a huff of annoyance in return. “But I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

“I’d say you’re maybe seventeen, so pardon my confusion,” Sam shot back.

“Rude.”

“She wanted to make sure you won’t run away,” Sam continued while looking back to the TV. “Because she knew you’d try to. Guess she was right.”

“She asked you to stop me from leaving?” Micah blinked, the gnawing doubt of her actually telling her cop friend about the lie they tried to pull on him, and all the possible illegal endeavours he did and what made him almost killed, clawing at his consciousness like a hungry beast. His hands twitched in anticipation of Sam pulling out handcuffs or a gun, and he felt an immediate need to run for his life, but the cop remained passive and seated peacefully, not even looking at Micah’s direction.

“Yep,” he agreed lightly. “She said you’re a stubborn fool who would immediately try to go home and open his wounds while catching the last bus.”

“I’m more of a taxi type,” Micah uttered and tucked his knees under his chin, massaging his cold toes unhappily. “And you definitely don’t need to bother.”

“Tough luck,” Sam shrugged and reached for his beer, taking a sip and then glanced at his companion. “Not to mention… when someone leave you beaten up to die, there is a high chance they won’t stop once they see you survived.”

“That’s my problem,” Micah growled.

“It’s Becka’s problem too,” the dark haired man focused back on the TV, absolutely unfazed by Micah’s tone of voice. “And since she asked me to, it’s also my problem.”

“Aren’t you an obedient soldier,” Micah glared at him, spitting up venom around. “Does it make you feel good carrying orders? Being bossed around?”

He definitely earned the spiteful look in Sam’s eyes, but he was just fed up with this whole thing already, and the fact he just got grounded in someone’s else place got him winded up and impatient. He wanted to get out, pull himself together, get some decent clothes and deal with his own mess by himself. But now he had a nosy nurse and her little soldier playing saviours, and for how much grateful he was for his life, it just passed his comfort zone by a mile.

“Just deal with it, _Mikey_ ,” the cop gritted through his teeth, his jaw clenched and body tense. “You’re _not_ leaving until Becka says it’s _safe_ for you to actually move around like crazy.”

“I’m pretty sure you like playing a sub in the bedroom,” Micah bit back. _Mikey_ just pulled a trigger in him and all he wanted was to gain an upper hand to feel better.

“I don’t know how my sex life is even relevant to this conversation,” Sam was now openly glaring at him, and Micah felt the satisfaction flooding into his veins.

“Maybe you should watch Fifty Shades Of Grey,” he continued, just because he could and because it _worked_. “Get some nice tips how to obey even better.”

“I got told you’re insufferable, but this is actually exceeding my expectations,” Sam grumbled and stood up like a menacing statue. “So how about you take some more pills for sleeping and go crawl into a bed and stay there until morning?”

“How about you do it instead?” Micah opposed, but remained sitting, even though the sudden high difference made him agitated. Not that he would make it better if he actually stood up as well, judging from the look Sam had to be around 190 cm tall (and Micah stubbornly fought for 165, even though 164,5 was the right number).

“Oh man, how Becka keeps on finding jackasses like you, that’s a mystery,” Sam grabbed the bottle and for one crazy second Micah thought he was going to get hit by it, get his skull open by cheap liquor, until the cop just walked past him without any intention to continue the conversation.

“Oh I dunno,” he hissed after him anyway. “Maybe because _good guys_ like you are so _bori_ -,”

“End of the conversation,” Sam barked over his shoulder on his retreat to the kitchen and Micah shut up, mildly offended like a pubertal kid who got scolded by his parent, and just watched the man disappearing from his sight in annoyance.

“You didn’t get me any pants!” he called after him spitefully and heard a loud bang coming from the distance, probably how Sam was slowly losing his patience.

“Feel free to freeze to death!” came a reply after several seconds and that was it. Micah stared at the door leading to the other room with narrowed eyes and then inched closer to the place Sam was sitting just a moment ago, still _warm_ enough.

“Protect and serve… what a joke,” he grumbled and stretched the shirt over his knees.

Life was so unfair lately. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetad!
> 
> Anyone else is getting annoying, even to themselves, when something pains them? I know I do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That’s very mean, lady,” he pointed at her threateningly, but it lacked the heat and she knew it.   
> “That’s playing dirty,” she shrugged and returned to the bandage. “Not to mention it’s just me who’s holding him from sniffling dirt about you. He’d be onto you in a second if you gave him a chance.”  
> “Who? Mister Sub in the bedroom?” Micah cackled, earning a confused blink of her eyes. “Nevermind.”

“Heard you wanted to leave yesterday.”

Micah blinked blearily against the light coming from everywhere until he was able to say that Becka was leaning over him with a disappointed look on her face. What a sight.

“Heard you put a watch dog on me,” he croaked out, his throat dry like a desert and Becka hmphed and straightened up again. She must have just come home since she still looked somehow official, lips red and clothes clean and crispy. There was a hint of tiredness in her eyes though, which reminded him she had a night shift, according to Mr. Grumpypants.

“Because I wasn’t sure if you’re stupid enough to actually attempt to leave in your condition,” she commented and looked him over disapprovingly, which finally made him realize he fell asleep in the living room and apparently used Sam’s jacket as a blanket, because he was now draped under it with his bare toes peeking out.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he mumbled, pushing the jacket away as if it was something poisonous and cringed when his shoulder throbbed unmercifully. Must have been a curse she put on him, to bide her words when she wanted to prove her point, he thought.

“Of course you are,” she uttered and nodded towards his injury. “That’s why you’re bleeding again.”

“What? No, I-,” he stuttered to halt when he saw the bandage that peeked out under the collar going pink and frowned.

“I just want to help you,” she sighed and sat down next to him. “Would be easier if you agreed to a hospital though.”

“I already told you-,”

“I know,” she shrugged. “That’s why I need you to calm down and stay here until you’re at least a little more ready to move as you are used to.”

She pulled at his shirt and he grumbled and took it off unhappily, revealing the soaked bandage under.

“You didn’t need to invest Grumpy in this though,” he mumbled while she started to unwind the cloth, poking at the wound and eliciting a groan from him.

“And would you stay if I hadn’t?” she glanced at him doubtfully and he avoided her eyes in silence. “That’s what I thought.”

“It’s not your problem though,” he reminded her, because apparently both of these two tended to forget about it. He wasn’t even a friend, or family, and yet she acted as if he was the most important person in the world.

“You keep saying that,” she stopped with her work and looked him dead in the eyes. “But the moment I found you on the road it became my problem as well, you understand?”

“You did what you could,” he pointed at the bandage. “I’m alive and the rest can be taken care of somewhere else, without your intervention, and you know it.”

“Is this your way of telling me I can stuff it because you don’t need me anymore?” her features hardened and Micah took a deep breath, suddenly very self-conscious about the fact he had been sitting there only in his briefs, with her posing like a damn parent, and all he could do was to shut up and shake his head a no like an obedient son.

Women were scary sometimes.

“A week at least,” she said in a serious voice. “Then you can leave without me pestering you about it.”

“A week!”

“Two would be safer, you know,” she added coldly. “A standard procedure.”

“Two weeks!”

“I can always ask Sam to get your fingerprints,” she mentioned. “Then you’d be happy for _two weeks_ , judging from all this.”

“That’s very mean, lady,” he pointed at her threateningly, but it lacked the heat and she knew it.

“That’s playing dirty,” she shrugged and returned to the bandage. “Not to mention it’s just me who’s holding him from sniffling dirt about you. He’d be onto you in a second if you gave him a chance.”

“Who? Mister Sub in the bedroom?” Micah cackled, earning a confused blink of her eyes. “Nevermind.”

She watched him warily for a moment, but when he refused to explain, she just shrugged it off and reached for a box in the table slot, pulling out the clean bandage.

“Take it easy for few days, will you?” she told him while slowly getting the bandage over his shoulder, gently fastening it. “You already reopened the wound after one day. Do I have to watch you the whole time?”

“No, mom,” he muttered, hissing when she fastened it too firmly. “Can you tell me where you put my clothes? Walking here in my briefs is getting kinda embarrassing.”

“Yeah?”

“I haven’t shaved my legs,” he deadpanned and Becka smirked, glancing at his shins and rolled her eyes.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” she told him fondly, and it was strange, because he believed her it was genuine, and he didn’t even know her. “But your clothes got a little too unwearable after the thing you had been through, so I’d advise you against wearing them again.”

“Too many holes?” he suggested and she nodded with a sigh.

“Holes, dried blood, and just… not really presentable,” she explained. “But Sam told me you were asking for clothes-,”

“Oh?” he raised an eyebrow. “Did he now?”

She just smirked slightly and reached for a bag she brought with her. He barely registered that before, so it came a bit like a surprise when she put it in front of him and pulled neatly folded clothes out of its confinement.

“I didn’t really take your measures while I was treating you, so I’m sorry if it’s not exactly your size,” she handed the pile to him, successfully ignoring Micah’s wide eyes and slack jaw.

She got him clothes? _New_ clothes on top of that?

“You got me clothes?” he let out in shock and she shrugged, folding the bag slowly. “New clothes?”

“I doubt you’d be able to get in my clothes,” she smirked. “And I also doubt you’d be able to wear any of Sam’s. He probably wouldn’t even let you, let’s be honest.”

“I wouldn’t even want them,” he replied stubbornly – and childishly, because why the hell not. He left him here without any care in the world, in his raggy t-shirt and told him to freeze to death. He was entitled to be childish about it.

She just shook her head, apparently giving up, and let him be with his brand new clothes alone whole she disappeared in her bedroom, probably to change. He sat there quietly for a while longer, looking at the pile as if it was something holy he didn’t want to spoil, and then carefully took the first garment and unfolded it.

She had a good taste, he thought, looking at the dark blue shirt that hadn’t had the collar all the way up to the neck. He hated that, it felt like it wanted to strangle him. He tried it on and it fitted almost perfectly – maybe a little loose on sides, but hey, she got it. His shoulder protested a little when he was pulling it over his head, but it hadn’t hurt as bad as before, so he stopped himself from overreacting and rather took another part of his new wardrobe – a black button up sweater.

She got him a bloody nerdy button up sweater. He wanted to cry.

It was screaming _come punch me_ miles away, but thankfully he noticed, that under it laid a light jacket and that definitely felt a bit better. Not that he was ungrateful for this, but he still eyed the sweater with disgust when he was putting it away.

What definitely caught his eye were trousers though. At first he thought it had been a skirt and she made fun of him, because he had been demanding pants forever now. But when he actually looked it over properly he realized it definitely wasn’t a skirt, but indeed pants, and she must have hated him a lot to get him this.

He probably stared at the viciously red plaid pattern for too long, because she emerged from the bedroom already in more comfortable clothes and noticed him sitting there in shock, which made her laugh.

“That’s some expression,” she commented in amusement. “Don’t like your new clothes?”

“You got me… plaid pants?” he raised the garment up his head and she chuckled.

“Michael was a punk, remember?” she pointed out. “He had one of those, and they were actually kind of rad. Thought I’d try to get you in one.”

“Plaid pants! Tight pants!” he whined and it made her smile smugly at him and nodding with mischievous gleam in her eyes.

“Just try it on,” she urged him. “Try the punk life!”

“Life is cruel,” he grumbled while really putting those on, and sincerely hoped she brought a wrong size.

She didn’t.

***

Becka retired half an hour later, leaving Micah with an order to make himself a breakfast if he wanted, and he actually contemplated that option until he decided against it and tried to leave once more.

Or course, he promised. But it was not like he made a blood oath, right? She was right with Sam, that guy might pose a problem and he didn’t need that.

So he tried to get out, only to encounter locked doors and no keys in close vicinity, and just let out a long, defeated sigh.

_Of course._

He spent half an hour more searching for his own clothes, the pants she gave him were snug at all wrong places and it made him feel like everyone and everything watched his butt, because it must have been the most apparent place when seeing this colourful attire. He found nothing though, only his shoes, and that definitely hadn’t been enough.

He returned to the kitchen in defeat, made himself cup of coffee and sat there like a tit, not knowing that to do.

_Is this what a prison feels like?_

Two coffees and one toast later he heard the doors opening and counted to three before Sam emerged from the hallway, looking gruff and grumpy as usual. He looked Micah over, naturally stopping at the pants, and rolled his eyes.

“Becka’s asleep,” Micah informed him sternly. “If you came here to check up on her.”

“I came to check up on _you_ ,” Sam answered coldly and Micah narrowed his eyes.

“You say the sweetest things,” he uttered and Sam only grunted and crossed the room towards the living room, disappearing there. Micah had an urge to follow him and maybe make a little show with his new clothes, just to let this guy know he didn’t need to be the only uncomfortable one with the pants. But he decided against it and stayed put, only to see Sam emerging once more with his jacket on.

_Oh._

“Tell Becka to call me once she’s awake,” he ordered Micah on his way back to the hallway.

“Do I look like a recorder to you?” Micah immediately shot back and Sam didn’t even stop on his way out.

“You look like a schoolgirl’s skirt to me,” he called back from behind the door. “Just uglier.”

“Wow,” Micah reacted, but Sam probably didn’t even hear that, since the door banged closed again, the lock clicked and he was gone.

Micah hated him _and_ the pants with passion.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an original work of mine, an idea that didn't want to leave my head and I just couldn't really thought of any fandom that I could put it into.  
> So yeah. It's definitely a future "romance", only in a freestyle of someone who has sassy comback to everything and someone who's second name is grumpy.
> 
> If you read this, thank you! <3 I'd be delighted to know what you think ^.^
> 
> The name of the work is taken from the name of Marilyn Manson's song from The Pale Emperor (Or better a variation of it).


End file.
